


Blood and Fire

by Darksilvercat



Series: Salvation 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Cas!whump, Gen, Torture, a long long time ago I wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksilvercat/pseuds/Darksilvercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is safe, but he needs help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal on November 24th 2008.

What little strength he had recovered in the cabin finally deserts him as Dean’s car bounces over the hundredth pothole of the journey.

He is stretched out in the back seat, with Dean kneeling awkwardly over him and carefully trying to bind up the worst of the injuries. The bandages wrapped around his torso are already stained with his blood, as Dean presses a pad of gauze to either side of his neck where the demon’s knife had slipped behind his collarbone and almost punctured his lungs.

The hunter takes one of his hands and guides it to the gauze, telling him to hold pressure on it. He is doing the best he can when the car clips a particularly deep pothole and shudders violently. The motion causes Dean’s hand to slip as he attempts to pass a fresh roll of linen around his waist. Rough fingers press too hard into a knife wound, and the sharp burst of pain causes him to cry out.

Both brothers throw concerned glances his way, apologising immediately, but he turns his face away from them, pressing it into the leather jacket folded beneath his head. His spirit reacts to the unceasing pain, and his physical form responds in the only way it knows how. Hot tears fill his eyes, and he doesn’t want them to see this weakness. He is no mere mortal, and the tears are a far greater humiliation to him than they could possibly understand.

He closes his eyes and draws in a deep, shuddering breath, but the action causes a fresh wave of pain to wash over him. Dean’s hand accidentally brushes against a loose flap of skin on his back, and his limit is reached. With an agonised cry he gives up, retreating inwards. He sees darkness clouding in on his vision and welcomes it.

*****

_There are five basic kinds of torture._

_His captors had gleefully informed him of this when he opened his eyes to see only darkness. They tugged on the wires that restrained him, pulling his arms up to a painful angle and forcing him to his feet._

_The first, he soon learns, is hot._

_He is a being of light, bright and beautiful in his true form. He had forced his way into the depths of hell; witnessed the flames of hellfire dancing and twisting into horrific images, but he had been immune to their power._

_He is not immune to the fire they use to burn away his skin. The hissing flame and the smell of burnt flesh is nothing compared to the agony of cracked and blistering skin. He is unprepared for the intensity of the pain, and the first time the flames lick across his face and neck he cries out, surprise mingling with pain in his voice. They delight in the sound, and immediately set about trying to draw it out again, but he is angry with himself for his moment of weakness, and steels himself against their efforts._

_It takes three days for them to grow bored._

_The second form of torture is sharp._

_A razor blade drags carelessly across his neck, pressing into the skin but not quite breaking it. The blade traces a steady pathway down to the base of his ribcage, and his heartbeat quickens in anticipation._

_You heal too fast, they whisper to him, it’s no fun at all._

_If we cut out your heart, would it go on beating?_

_Fear grips him for the first time, and when they dig deep into his skin, tearing at muscle and pushing past bone to test their theory; he screams._

*****

When he wakes his body is bathed in sweat and shaking.

Something damp and cool presses against his forehead and he flinches away, even as some subconscious part of him acknowledges that there is no danger here.

His eyes dart rapidly around the room, confirming what he already knows. He is lying in a room just like all the others he has found the Winchester brothers in when he comes to them to deliver his messages, warnings, and _threats_. The heavy curtains have been pulled shut, and the only source of light is a battered lamp on a small wooden table.

The bed beneath him can hardly be called comfortable by human standards, but it is soft, and he has lain there long enough for the mattress and blankets beneath him to mould to his shape. He is on his back, so the pain there is worst, but he acknowledges the fact that his chest and stomach are far more damaged. There are bandages wrapped around most of his torso, and several thick pads of gauze taped over his neck and shoulders.

They are soaked and sticky with his blood.

It is an oddly unsettling sensation, and he struggles for a moment to sit up, wanting to pull the soaked linen away from him. A hand presses him gently back into the sheets.

"Take it easy," Dean murmurs softly.

He feels infinitely uncomfortable in his weakened state, and part of him is almost angry that it is Dean Winchester of all people who had to rescue him, who had to see him laid so pathetically low.

But the elder Winchester presses the flannel cloth to his forehead again, and he shivers slightly as it soothes away the memory of fire.

"You were dreaming. I didn’t think angels could dream."

Dean’s tone is light and conversational, almost friendly. He doesn’t know how to respond, glancing up to see green eyes fixed on him. They seem almost understanding.

_What were you dreaming about?_

He knows his previous attempts to communicate with the man have been awkward and clumsy, but now he has found himself in a situation where talking is all he can do, and he wants to answer, wants Dean to understand.

"Not like humans do," he replies softly. His voice is still dry and cracked, and Dean rises to fetch a glass of water, gently lifting him and helping him to drink before he responds.

"So what would an angel dream about?" he asks.

There is no challenge in the man’s voice, and he regards him uncertainly. Since the first time he had approached Dean Winchester, the man had only ever resisted him. Every question, every word that came from his mouth was a challenge, as though to see how far he could push before the angel pushed back. But it was okay; because Dean is a soldier, and he is a soldier, and he knows how to deal with soldiers.

He confessed his doubts to Dean because he knew the man would not listen. He knew his words would be heard and accepted and remembered, but they would not be judged. Not like his brothers would judge him. Now he wonders if Dean is judging him in a different way. For the first time he finds himself wondering what Dean sees when he looks at him.

"The past," he says.

He knows that Dean knows he was reliving his ordeal. But he is ancient, timeless, and he has seen so much. Too much. Better to relive his own trials than those he has been forced to bear witness to.

Dean regards him in silence, green eyes staring into his own, and for a moment he wonders if the man knows all that he leaves unsaid. The silence stretches between them until the hunter blinks, breaking eye-contact, and he wonders if Dean has seen something he cannot stand. The man has never been able to look him in the eye for too long, and he doesn’t know why. It’s certainly not reverence, nor fear that causes Dean to look away. He thinks it might take a lifetime to understand this man, and then wonders why that matters.

The elder Winchester lifts the cloth from his forehead and turns his attention to the bandages on his wrist. He unwinds it slowly, hissing in a breath as the last of the cloth falls away. His eyes follow the man’s gaze, coming to rest on the torn and maimed flesh of his wrist.

Dean reaches out, and he feels himself tense as a hand stretches toward him, but the touch on his wrist is feather light, and doesn’t hurt.

"I kind of assumed you’d be half-way healed by now," he admits softly.

"It is not just this body that has been damaged," he replies by way of explanation, and his voice has dropped to a whisper because it doesn’t hurt his throat so much to whisper.

"Is there anything we can do to help?" The question is open and genuine, and he stares at the hunter, honestly confused. He has never given the man cause to help him or trust him. Since Anna, their encounters had been even more strained, filled with harsh words and forceful commands.

_You’re supposed to show mercy._

He wonders if this is the mercy Sam Winchester had expected of his kind. The thought causes him to notice for the first time that the younger Winchester is missing, and he asks Dean where his brother has gone.

"He went to pick up some supplies." Dean waves a hand towards his bound and bloodstained torso. "We used pretty much our entire stock in bandages on you, and we weren’t sure how long you’d be out for."

"It will take me several days to recover," he tells the man. Then, in answer to his previous question; "You don’t have to do anything more for me. I can take care of myself."

Dean quirks an eyebrow and the skeptical expression on his face is much more familiar to him.

"You can’t even stand up," he notes bluntly. "Will your angel buddies be coming to help you?"

"My brothers have larger concerns," he replies, then remembers Dean’s opinion of the ‘larger concerns’ explanation. Sure enough, Dean’s expression hardens for a moment, but when he speaks his voice remains soft.

"Then you need our help."

The words are filled with certainty, and he hates that his weakness is so obvious. He’s in no position to disagree with the man, not when darkness is clouding the edge of his vision and the deepest wounds on his body are still sullenly leaking blood. His grasp on consciousness is tenuous at best, but he holds on as Dean binds his wrists in fresh white linen. He shuts his eyes and clenches his teeth when the man eases him upright, the movement causing fresh waves of pain to crash over him. He leans heavily into Dean, his forehead resting on the man's shoulder as he recovers from the effort. Dean holds him still for a moment, but then his hands fall away from his shoulders, and he forces himself to remain steady. Blood-soaked cloth falls away from his body, and he winces when the bandage must be unstuck from the wounds, shivers when cold air whispers into the cuts, stinging like ice.

Dean can’t keep from staring at the myriad pattern of cuts across his chest, horror in his eyes as he takes in the full extent of the injuries. He tries once again to reassure the hunter.

"I have suffered far worse in my time," he says softly.

"Yeah?" Dean looks caught between disbelief and some kind of awe. "When?"

Green eyes meet his, and he sees the familiar challenge, muted by genuine curiosity and concern. In truth there are several answers he could give, but at this moment all of them are lost to him. Words spill out against his will, and he wants to snatch them back but it's too late. The truth, once spoken, is not so easily denied.

"When I pulled you out of Hell."

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhere in the depths of my laptop, there exists an unfinished third part to this series.


End file.
